Love and Administration
by janiejanine
Summary: A series of ficlets about Seneschal Varel, Mistress Woolsey, and their relationship, or lack thereof. Shameless fluff.
1. Chapter 1

There were few things more boring than an oath-taking ceremony. Varel would never fidget - he was too experienced for that - but the new Warden-Commander had to be chafing.

As soon as the speeches were over, and there'd been a minimal amount of mingling, he drew her away from the crowd and murmured "Let me know if you want the nobles cleared out."

The Commander choked back a laugh. Varel hadn't pegged her for a formal sort, and he was gratified to see that his initial read had been correct. But then, it usually was.

A disapproving sniff came from somewhere to his right. He turned. Of course. Mistress Woolsey.

She _was_ good at her job, he thought grudgingly. The Keep hadn't been this flush in the pocket for years; he certainly couldn't fault her financial acumen. But the woman was too damned stiff. Everything about her was cinched up tight, from the laces of her dress to the coils of hair on her head. Had to be, he supposed, to keep that stick firmly lodged-

"Do you need something, Seneschal?" she asked, eyebrow arched.

"No," he replied shortly. He shook his head and set about emptying the hall.

After the last of the nobles had finally made his way to the door, Varel stood at the head of the room, supervising the cleanup while he waited for the Commander to finish with Captain Garevel. It appeared he'd have some competition for her attention, though; he spotted Woolsey sitting in one of the hard wooden chairs, back straight, apparently waiting for the same thing. As he watched, she looked around, as if making sure no one was looking, and picked up a stray flower from the centerpiece on the nearest table, raising it to her nose. She closed her eyes, inhaled, and smiled.

He'd never seen her smile before. It softened her face and brightened her eyes, and she looked...actually rather nice.

Hmm. Maybe not so uptight, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Mistress Woolsey laid down her quill and pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. She'd been hunched over dusty books for at least three candlemarks, and her head ached from squinting at the faded brown ink.

These accounts - these _bloody_ accounts, she thought defiantly, though whom she was defying, she wasn't quite sure - were an absolute mess. How did anyone get anything done? Brave and deadly the Wardens may be, but they had no concept of organization.

Bloody Wardens.

The door to her office creaked open and she jumped, narrowly avoiding poking herself in the eye. There was only one person who would feel free to stroll in at this late hour without knocking: Varel. Wonderful. More bickering about procedure was the last thing she needed. He never let her forget that she was an outsider, and Fereldans had their own way of doing things. She half expected him to start marking his territory like a dog.

He had some good points, she supposed. He was certainly efficient. He wasn't bad-looking, either, but a full head of hair and a fine backside only got you so far.

She barely managed to smooth her hair back and put on her best imperious expression before he made it all the way into the room. "Yes?" she said.

"I brought you...I thought you could use...well, here." He held out a steaming mug.

She eyed it dubiously. "What is that?"

"It's chocolate, from Antiva. Came in on the last caravan," he replied.

She accepted the mug and blew across the top to cool it before taking a sip. It was smooth and sweet and rich and certainly the most delicious thing she'd tasted since coming to Ferelden. She closed her eyes, a small sigh of appreciation slipping out before she could stop it.

"Thank you," she said.

He responded with a nod and a noncommittal grunt. Was he _blushing?_ Surely not. She'd been sitting in the dim light too long, and her eyes were playing tricks on her. Either that, or living with the Wardens had finally driven her as mad as they were.

When they'd first met, the first thing she noticed had been the lovely color of his eyes. Of course, that good impression had fled the moment he opened his mouth, but they were still nice, and here, in the glow of the candle...well. She scratched "not bad-looking" out of her mental ledger and replaced it with "quite handsome, in the right light".

Her eyes met his over the rim of the mug. She smiled, and for a fleeting moment he looked startled. Then he smiled back, and she stopped thinking about accounts altogether.


End file.
